


I See You Shiver

by IamJohnLocked4life



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry John, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Costumes, Halloween, Halloween Costumes, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Rocky Horror Picture Show - Freeform, Sexy Sherlock, sexy fun, silly fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-23
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-25 07:43:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3802357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamJohnLocked4life/pseuds/IamJohnLocked4life
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From this tumblr headcanon/prompt by the lovely <a href="http://hotdiggitydollie.tumblr.com/">hotdiggitydollie</a>:<br/><em>I love Sherlock as Dr. Frank-N-Furter! Can you imagine if John talked Sherlock into attending a Halloween party? Maybe John dresses as a dog with floppy ears and nose and Sherlock comes out of the bedroom in a bustier and garters. Can you imagine John’s reaction?</em></p><p>It occurs to me now that there are no floppy ears, nose, or even garters in this fic, but I hope you like it all the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I See You Shiver

**Author's Note:**

  * For [handsinpants](https://archiveofourown.org/users/handsinpants/gifts).



> Dedicated to my Hellions, who support and inspire me every day. I love you all dearly. Special shout-outs to Dollie, Elizabeth, and Heimish, whose love of Rocky Horror, glitter, and angry!John motivated this madness.
> 
> After filling this prompt, I realised it is the second in-costume-for-a-Halloween-party fic I've written, and surely not my last. No, I don't think it's always Halloween at Baker Street; this is what happens when a lifelong cosplayer writes fic.  
> I have no regrets.

"Sherlock, we're going to be late."

John paced in the sitting room, feeling ridiculous. It hadn't been his idea to go to this stupid costume party, but Sherlock had insisted that their attendance would be crucial in solving the triple-homicide case that had been keeping them up most nights this week — well, keeping Sherlock up, and John up by proxy, because who could sleep when there was a maniac with a violin screeching away at all hours of the night? He claimed it helped him think but here it was Friday and they were no closer to solving the case, and John suspected that the alleged benefits of impromptu avant-garde recitals at 4 am were greatly outweighed by the actual real life benefits of a decent night's sleep. Christ but he was tired.

John ran a hand over his face, fingers scrubbing into hair until they met resistance in the form of a hard plastic band. Right. This was why he felt ridiculous. Bad enough he had to scramble to find a costume at 5 o'clock on the Friday afternoon of Halloween weekend for a 7 pm party, but the only adult sized costume left in the cramped "seasonal boutique" that wasn't half of a couples costume or downright pornographic (seriously, a sexy bee? Where did people get these ideas?) was… this.

He looked down at the lumpy velour sack that apparently constituted "Cute Corgi Costume" and sighed. His fingers traced along the headband to fiddle with the ears, little felt triangles with pink centres and tufts of fake fur. What the hell was he doing? He had only gotten back to Baker Street twenty minutes ago, greeted by a booming, "Get dressed, John, it's nearly seven!" emanating from Sherlock's closed bedroom door, and like the faithful companion he was, John had scampered up the steps and hastily thrown on his ill-conceived purchase.

And now here it was, ten past seven, and still no Sherlock in sight. And here John was, waiting outside his door. Pet, Moriarty had called him. Replaying the day's events in his head, John was hard-pressed to disagree. Perhaps this costume was more fitting than he realised.

Fuck. That.

He was _not_   Sherlock Holmes' bloody pet. Heat rising in his chest, John strode up to Sherlock's door. His skin tingled, body alight with dark purpose. Jaw set and pulse thrumming, he raised his fist high, quivering with anticipation. Yes, pound the door, bash the wood, smash it to splinters and tear it from its hinges. He drew in a tight breath and let loose.

His fist whooshed through the air, meeting no resistance as the door suddenly flew open, and John tumbled through the doorway. He caught himself just in time to avoid an embarrassing faceplant, and regaining his balance, his eyes slid across the floor to land on… stiletto heels? He bit back the curses that had been on his lips, his anger falling away as his gaze travelled up the shapely lines of long fishnet-clad legs — Sweet Jesus, they went on for miles. The criss-crossing pattern wove a hypnotic trance, John's thoughts following the black threads this way and that as they wrapped around firm calves and muscular thighs. He was fully absorbed in their sinuous trail, until he reached their termination at a very tight, very _large_ , leather-clad bulge.

John gulped. John blinked. John tried desperately to avert his eyes, and failed spectacularly.

Sherlock cleared his throat, a hint of dry amusement evident in the sound. Bastard. It broke the spell enough for John to flick his eyes over the rest of Sherlock's body— lace-up black corset and fingerless black gloves, made from some sort of sequined material that glittered in the light— before settling at last on his face.

That face. If he hadn't known it was Sherlock, he wouldn't have recognised him. Skin powdered to white, hollows of the cheeks skillfully defined with rouge, artistically accentuating each plane, somehow making those incredible cheekbones impossibly sharper. Soft, full lips were stained a deep bloody red, coated in a shimmery glaze that seemed to plump up the bottom lip to near cartoonish proportions. They were rimmed in black, the impeccable dark outline tracing the absurd peaks and valleys of that surreal mouth, emphasising their perfection. Not that John had thought much about Sherlock's mouth. At least, no more than could be expected, when it was always just so flagrantly… there.

John shook those thoughts from his head and forced himself to meet Sherlock's eyes. He almost instantly regretted it. Pale teal iridescence shone in stark contrast to deep velvety grey; coal-lined cat eyes that crackled with intensity, made all the more heated by the fringe of long black lashes that framed their startling stare. John felt the floor go soft under his feet, reality wavering like heat distortion as he tried to hold Sherlock's gaze.

Sherlock raised an expertly shaped eyebrow into an elegant arch.

" _What_ are you wearing?"

The disdain in his voice brought John back to himself. He felt a blush rising to his cheeks, but he firmly shoved down his embarrassment. He would not be cowed by Sherlock Holmes, no matter what the bloody hell he was wearing.

"I could ask you the same thing. I thought you said this was a costume party, for Halloween?"

"Yes, at a _sex club_ , John. You do recall the case we've been working on the past week? I know you normally can't be bothered to retain pertinent facts but even you must have noticed the locations of the murders we've been investigating?"

John would not be shamed by this man. He absolutely refused. He cleared his throat.

"Sex clubs?"

"Sex clubs. I should blend in just fine, but you… well, on second thought, you may be quite popular with a… select clientele." A smirk played at Sherlock's crimson lips, and John wanted to kiss it right off him. Hit it. Hit it right off him, Christ where had that come from? He really must be tired.

"Although," Sherlock continued, lifting a hand to John's face, "your ensemble might be more believable with a small addition." Red nails traced down John's neck and across his throat. John fought against the shiver threatening to wrack his body, but he was only partially successful in controlling the tremors. The feel of light scratches along his Adam's apple was almost more than he could take.

Abruptly, Sherlock turned aside to rummage for something in his wardrobe, and John allowed his eyes to briefly flutter closed, relieved yet oddly bereft to be free of that tantalising touch. When he opened them again, he was greeted with the sight of Sherlock bent over, searching the bottom drawer of his dresser. How the extravagantly tall man could hinge at the waist while balancing atop 6-inch heels was a mystery to John, one he would have to ponder another day as at the moment his attention was focussed elsewhere. Namely, the taut black curves of arse being presented like a gift to his hungry eyes. Good god, had this man no self-consciousness at all? Though John usually admired this quality in Sherlock— he often wished he could care less what other people thought of him— this was just excessive. Did he have to flaunt it so… flamboyantly? He wished he could think of another word, but it was hard to think straight with that arse in his face.

"Ah, here it is."

Sherlock unfurled with serpentine grace, stretching as he rose with so deeply an arched back that John marvelled that he didn't snap in half. He turned on his heel and brandished his prize with a flourish. A black leather collar swung from a long silver chain. Sherlock stalked towards him, scarlet lips stretched wide in a predatory grin. John's mouth was suddenly parched, his breath coming in shallow pants. Sherlock pressed into John's space and dragged the cool metal leash across his throat. This time, John was utterly helpless against his body's response, shivers overtaking him as goosebumps leapt across his skin.

"What do you say, John? Would you like to be my good boy tonight?"

The rich baritone was equal parts snide and seductive, and John grit his teeth against its intoxicating sway.

"No, thank you," he ground out, determinedly not making eye contact with the man hovering inches from his face. John Watson was nobody's boy.

"Pity." Sherlock trailed the chain up John's neck, brushing the soft leather against his cheek. "It really does suit you." He straightened up and gave a little shrug, tossing the collar on his bed with more flair than was strictly necessary. "Some other time, perhaps," he said with a wink as he brushed past John.

John stood frozen in the doorway and tried to gather his wits. He had no idea what had just happened, but whatever it was felt fairly monumental. Earth-shattering, even. He was certain it would change his life, just as soon as he could process what "it" was. At the moment, his mind was stubbornly blank.

"Coming, John?"

John roused himself from his confused reverie and turned to see Sherlock whip a black feather boa round his neck and sashay out the door, heels clicking down the steps with every twitch of his hips. _Hell yes_ , John was coming. He may not be Sherlock's pet, but damned if he wasn't going to be at that man's side all night long.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr ~ [iamjohnlocked4life](http://iamjohnlocked4life.tumblr.com/) ~ Please say hi, I love to chat!
> 
> A big THANK YOU to [Iwantthatcoat](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat/pseuds/Iwantthatcoat) who remixed this fic into a [poem](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3861535) for Wits on Tap 2015!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [I'm Not Your Pet...You're Not My Master](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3861535) by [Iwantthatcoat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat/pseuds/Iwantthatcoat)




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